Half Dozen Roses
by V.M. Bell
Summary: The rose blooms fresh, a vivid blotch of crimson on the pallid gray of rock in a cruel juxtaposition.


**Half Dozen Roses**

There stands his grave against the disappearing, weakening sun. The grave of your mortal enemy – no, of _the_ mortal enemy, _the_ failed blasphemer. You shudder, as you always do, at the thought of the name of the hated and your being so close to his damned remains. But it is your job, isn't it, and the Dark Lord says it is a very, very important one. You will not fail the Dark Lord; you will be vigilant because His word is not to be disregarded.

The skies darken and you survey the broken tombs and crippled trees. You find no movement, hear no movement. Satisfied, you return your gaze to his headstone. Its dying state lights a smile on your face, reminding you once again of the piercing finality of that victory. It is a reminder you shall never sicken of.

Then your gaze is diverted. The sight of it banishes from your mind the intoxicating memory of sweet triumph. You rub your arms rapidly, trying but failing to dispel the sobering cold that so quickly descended upon you.

The rose blooms fresh, a vivid blotch of crimson on the pallid gray of rock in a cruel juxtaposition. Your eyes travel from the flower to the name "HARRY POTTER" etched in rudimentary lettering on the stone. There is no connection to mistake, for in your panic, you see the connection as clearly as you beheld the victory mere seconds earlier.

Your panic gives away to a bottomless fear. The Dark Lord reserves special punishments for circumstances such as this.

This _must_ be reported. It is your responsibility to do so. The Ministry will be aware of this enemy sympathizer, will devote resources towards the search, torture, and eventual execution of whoever it might be. But the whisper of _Crucio_ and worse grows louder in the recesses of your mind until you are consumed by it, it and the words "you have failed me" pouring like water from His lips.

It was coincidental, you convince yourself, nodding adamantly to reinforce the illusion. Yes. There is little to be worried about.

-

The lie is your comfort. Soft, blind, shielding.

Your comfort shatters as you return to the grave the next night.

You crush the rose within your raging fist, unaware of the thorns in your skin. The blood you spill now is insignificant compared to the blood bubbling within you, the blood that will bubble outside of you if you tell. _If_.

He tells you to be selfless, to devote your entire selves and your lives to the Dark. Clearly, He did not count on the individualistic natures of people like you, his supporters.

You pocket the shattered petals in your pocket and continue your lookout.

-

Four nights later, your lie is battered beyond recognition. You count: that makes six nights, six nights this mysterious traitor has laid roses upon his altar, the altar, the Dark Lord says, that you _simply cannot _let the enemy control in anyway. Has laid roses upon his altar under your watch. You have failed your order and calling. You have failed your Lord.

As you remove from your robes out six nights of dead roses, beneath His coldly blazing eyes, you suddenly, inexplicably _feel_ for those who have perished at His hands.

The Dark Lord looks at you, his wand now within sight. "And you should."

-

His eyes ache for sleep but he is filled with a determination that could keep him awake for the next week, if necessary. All for the Dark Lord. All for Him.

He reports directly to the Dark Lord, as the Minister of Intelligence always has, but these days, it is more important than ever. A subordinate has to report the emergence of the worst sort of traitor. He has been properly disposed of, of course, but it is now Blaise's mission not to err gravely. In fact, it is his mission to not err at all. Matters have been going well: no more roses have been found at the gravesite after the subordinate's death.

"My Lord, I believe we have a lead," he tells a sitting Dark Lord, showing Him a report prepared by the Intelligence Ministry. "We suspect it was one of Potter's school friends. A Weasley."

Blaise pauses to allow his master smile to Himself, smile at the knowledge of having killed many of that family.

"Ginny Weasley, actually. I knew of her while we were at Hogwarts together. A girl with spirit. _Very_ devoted to Potter. We've found her whereabouts, we've been tracking her for a few days now – "

"You will eliminate her, then – and perhaps you will need to display her corpse outside her burned house to as a warning. Feel free to mangle it in whatever creative ways your men see fit. You will be rewarded."

Blaise rolls up the parchment and sweeps a low bow. "Thank you, My Lord. It shall be done."

-

But a conflagration already possesses her house, painting the sky a dark billowing red, by the time he and his specially trained corps of Death Eaters arrive at its fiery remains. "Put it out!" he yells. Thick ribbons of water fly from their wands, encasing what remains of the edifice in an opaque bubble before the bubble implodes and stamps out the flames. Blaise knows that this night will not end well.

He walks into the charred skeleton of the building and is shocked by what he sees.

There is nothing in the house but burnt wall and floor. No furniture, no books, no Ginny Weasley in sight.

"I think we've found something!" calls one of his Death Eaters.

Blaise rushes towards the voice, his eyes instantly diverting to where the Death Eater is pointing.

His hand is ice when it reaches into his pocket and finds the heads of the roses. He places their dead and shriveled forms on the floor.

The roses find their brothers.

Six and six make twelve.


End file.
